Rhododendrons
by black.k.kat
Summary: Agent Harry Potter is a menace, Logan's sure of it. It doesn't matter that he's absolutely charming, or that he smells like almonds. So does cyanide. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating: **M-ish

**Warnings: **Bad language (it's Logan), slash, silliness, mentions of meddling ghost!Dumbledore, crack, crack crack crack.

**Word Count: **~10,000 (COMPLETE)

**Pairings: **Harry/Logan, with implications of Harry/Ginny (past), Charles/Erik, and Tony Stark/Steve Rogers

**Summary: **Agent Harry Potter is a menace, Logan's sure of it. It doesn't matter that he's absolutely charming, or that he smells like almonds. So does cyanide.

**Disclaimer: **I don't hold the copyrights, I didn't create them, and I make no profit from this.

**Notes: **Yes, this story is mine; no, I'm not plagiarizing. Yes, I took it down a year ago; yes, I'll eventually repost all of my HP/X-Men crossovers. However, if what happened before (rude PMs demanding continuations, even ruder people demanding that I write more such crossovers, etc.) happens again, I'll take them down for good. Please. These stories are COMPLETE and there are no sequels in the works. I'm also out of this particular fandom, so _pretty_ please, be content with the return of this silly, ridiculous story. I enjoy it, and hopefully you will as well.

* * *

_**Rhododendrons**_

When they meet, Wolverine is on a solo mission for the X-Men—get in, look around, make sure the Brotherhood and/or the government isn't causing trouble, and then get back out, with _no_ destruction. Simply reconnaissance. Nothing more. No heroics. No tantrums. Peaceful.

Really, Wheels takes all the fun out of life, but Logan supposes he can force himself to live with it.

And then the mission suddenly isn't so peaceful anymore as a man with messy black hair and nerdy glasses is _right there_ when Logan would have sworn up and down that there was no one before. He doesn't _jump_, but he sure as hell gets out of the way of whatever surprise is about to be tossed at him.

Except…nothing comes.

The kid—not _that_ much of a kid, but sure as hell younger than Logan—just raises one eyebrow and says nothing. Instead, he shakes his head slightly, pushes his glasses up his nose, and strides out of the shrubbery as though it's normal for a man in a three-piece suit and tie to be mucking around in the rhododendrons. Logan watches in quiet disbelief as he walks right past the guards at the entrance, as if they can't see him or the leaves in his messy hair. There's no showing of ID cards, which Logan knows by now is standard procedure for all visitors. There's also not so much as a twitch from the bigger guard, who Logan's noticed is a jumpy, trigger-happy bastard.

It's like they don't even see him.

Logan wants to splutter. He also wants to follow the nerdy-glasses-guy and see what, exactly, _the hell he's doing_, because there's a certain fishy smell about all of this that puts Logan's teeth on edge. The Professor's mind tricks have never worked on him, not with any regularity, and he can't help feeling that that's the only reason he saw the kid in the first place.

Mutant?

Probably.

Up to something?

Almost definitely.

And the hell of it is that Logan, without all those mind-fuck tricks and fancy powers, is stuck sulking behind a flower bush instead of following the unknown agent.

* * *

It's another hour and a half before Nerdy-Glasses-Guy comes strolling back out, this time carrying a briefcase.

He's _whistling_.

The guards don't even glance at him as he walks past, but Logan seethes—if in a quiet and unnoticeable way. It took him all morning to find this spot that the cameras can't reach and he's not about to lose it in a fit of pique. But this is the _last_ time he's going on _any_ surveillance missions, Chuck can count on that.

Nerdy-Glasses-Guy™ struts right down the path, makes a ninety-degree turn into the rhododendrons, and tosses Logan a cheery, two-fingered salute and a jaunty wink. He spins on his heel and vanishes, briefcase and all, without so much as a sound.

Logan really wants to hit something.

Before he can, however, there's a muffled boom from deep inside the facility. It makes the guards spin and shout, even as a whole horde of people in lab coats comes spilling out of the glass doors. They're shouting, voices sharp with panic and confusion, and smoke is spilling after them. It's the thick, dark, and greasy kind that means something important is burning, and Logan doesn't need three guesses to know who set the fire.

He's also pretty certain that whatever was in that briefcase? It had to be exactly that information that the Prof was after. He's equally certain that it is long, long gone.

Knowing that the area will soon be swarming with the authorities, Logan abandons his post as covertly as possible. If he gives the damned rhododendron a kick on the way out, well, there's no one else there to witness it.

"Yeah, Chuck," he says into his phone as soon as he's a safe distance away. "I think you'd better check on the Brotherhood—someone got there before me. The place is going up in flames, and their guy probably took everything we needed."

Charles sounds concerned, like Logan expected. "The Brotherhood wouldn't have endangered any mutants, even with so many civilian targets available, so I believe we can assume there were none there," he says, his frown all but audible. "Perhaps it was an entirely different group. Did you know the agent?"

Logan scoffs. He's not an idiot, and the professor is quite aware that if he had known the guy, he would have said so. "No, and it didn't smell like Mystique. Don't think she'd be caught dead in those glasses, either. But he was definitely a mutant—teleporter, like Nightcrawler, only without the brimstone and crack-of-thunder impression."

"I see." Now Chuck most definitely sounds wary. Logan can't really blame him. Last time someone used Nightcrawler's powers for evil, they were one step away from killing the president. That's not a comforting thought. "Logan, return as quickly as possible. I'm afraid we might need a full force of X-Men all too soon."

It takes a lot of self-control to bite back a sigh—and really, _screw_ Cyclops for implying that he doesn't have any when he most certainly does—and simply agree, but he does, and heads back towards his bike. It's half-hidden behind a nearby barn, and the smell of cow shit is so overwhelming that Logan almost doesn't notice the skinny guy with the thick glasses perched on his seat until it's too late. But he does, because _three-piece suit_ does not fit with _barn_ and his brain rebels at that, _making_ him take notice.

He freezes and stares at Nerdy-Glasses-Guy, who looks for all the world like he's completely at home where he is. The shiny metal briefcase is swinging from his grip, and while he hasn't started whistling yet, Logan can tell he's on the verge.

_Smug_ is a good word to describe that smile.

"Missing something?" the guy asks, and that accent's even more out of place in rural Iowa than that suit on a farm. Even so, Logan can't bring himself to laugh, because the guy's just walked in and out of one of the most secure government facilities Logan's ever laid eyes on. It doesn't matter that he's holding the briefcase out with a charming smile, or that he smells like almonds.

So does cyanide.

The pseudo-geek must notice Logan's lack of enthusiasm, because he rolls his eyes and sets the case down on the grass by the front tire. "You'd think a mutant would be more accepting," he mutters, then sighs and raises his hands in the classic "I surrender" gesture. "Look, mate, I'm guessing this is the reason you were skulking about there. My people already got what they needed, so the rest is up for grabs. Thought you could use it. Was I wrong?"

"No," Logan admits warily. "But why were you in there?"

From the look he gets, the kid's obviously wondering if he's got brain damage. "Same reason as you, yeah?" he says slowly. "Thought they had some of our people, and I was sent in to rescue them. The information's just a bonus." He glances down at his wrist, where something that looks like an unnecessarily complicated watch is strapped, and winces. "Fuck, I'm late. Nice meeting you, mate, hope we cross paths again."

Another half-turn on his heel and Logan's alone again.

The briefcase sits innocuously in the grass, and Logan hates it more than just a little bit. With a sigh, he pulls out the phone and dials the Professor again.

"Hey, Wheels, you know that kid I was talking about…?"

It's going to be a long ride back to New York.

And somehow, he gets the feeling that they haven't seen the last of this guy.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two**_

The second time they meet is so ridiculous and impossible that Logan can't even believe it happens.

They've been called to Washington thanks to Beast, who's impressed the President enough with his stories that the man wants to meet all of the Institute's professors properly. (As opposed to when they were shadowy, threatening figures in his office, all looking one step away from battered and accompanied by the very mutant who had attempted to murder him a few weeks earlier.) Logan has no idea why he's been dragged along for the ride, though Chuck had said something about teaching self-defense and combat strategies as a course making him a professor.

Hah.

As if Logan's ever done more than wail on something 'til it goes down. That's as far as his "strategy" goes, and not one bit more.

Nevertheless, he's here, and still not sure what exactly he did to piss of the Prof enough to be included. Usually he's all for a good dinner, but this one's dull enough that it probably falls under the "cruel and unusual" heading in the Geneva Convention. And because the First Lady is being "health conscious," there's not even any red meat to be had. Logan's about ready to kill someone and make it look like an accident, just for the entertainment value.

It's small consolation that even Scott's eyes–what Logan can see of them behind the stupid glasses—glazed somewhere around the third course.

Then one of the side doors swings open and an aide scurries through like his loafers are on fire. The President comes to attention a little guiltily, trying to pretend he hasn't just been caught half-asleep and drooling while one of the cabinet members drones, and nods importantly.

They're whispering, but hey. Mutant hearing. Gotta be good for something, right?

"Mr. President, there's an urgent communiqué from London," the aide says. "They sent a representative with some very important papers. Agent Potter left them on your desk—"

"Potter?" The President's eyes widen, and he rises hastily. "I'll look at them immediately. Ladies, gentlemen, please excuse me. Stephen, why don't you show Mr. Potter to an empty seat and get him a meal? I'll be done shortly."

There's an orchestrated rush by the staff to lay another place at the table, and they just manage to finish by the time that the aide returns. A few steps behind him, strolling casually as though he does this every day, is the young guy with the nerdy glasses.

Logan stares.

Thankfully, he does it quietly, and manages not to embarrass himself in front of the entire cabinet.

"Hello," the guy greets them all cheerfully, settling into his chair with a nod of thanks to the aide. "Sorry for crashing your dinner. It wasn't my intention, I assure you, but—" he shrugs in an _aw-shucks_ kind of way that shouldn't be as completely endearing as it is "—I'm afraid politics, like the wicked, never rests. Probably a connection there, but I'm not brave enough to find it."

Xavier is smiling gently, and if Logan didn't know him better he'd completely miss the faint lines of tension around his eyes. Either the Prof can't read this guy or he's getting bad vibes. Somehow, Logan thinks it's the former. Nerdy-Glasses-Guy just doesn't seem the evil, chaos-mongering type, regardless of the fact that—including here and now—Logan's seen him in two high-profile, heavily guarded places.

"Not at all," Chuck assures him genially. It's like they're each trying to out-gracious the other, and for once Logan can't tell who's going to win. "I'm Professor Charles Xavier, and these are the professors who teach at my school for the gifted."

"Harry Potter," the man returns with a nod, and there's a kind of _knowledge_ in his expression that tells Logan he knows exactly what the Prof's dancing around saying. Even here, _mutant_ is a bit of a dirty word. "I work with the government in London. Odds and ends in my department. Pleasure to meet all of you."

There's something in the wording here that bothers Logan, but damned if he can put his finger on it. He glances over at Storm to find her looking back at him, the same confused unease on her face. This man is twisting the truth. Maybe it's not a complete lie, but it's definitely not straightforward, either.

Then again, the Prof didn't exactly come out and say, "I'm headmaster of a school for mutant kiddies and command a superhero team decked out in black leather," either, so maybe they're even.

Potter takes a neat bite of chicken and chews for a moment, but despite the fact that his gaze is demurely fixed on his plate, Logan's getting the creepy-crawly feeling that he's not just being watched, but weighed and assessed. It's unnerving, especially from a kid who looks like he should be out in a club on a Friday night like this, picking up cute girls. Or guys.

Logan narrows his eyes. Yeah, that purple silk shirt is just screaming _metrosexual_. Glasses here either bats for both teams or is colorblind. Or his girlfriend shops for him. Logan can't quite decide.

"So, Mr. Potter." Chuck takes a sip of wine as those green eyes flick back towards him. The Prof's obviously come to some kind of decision, because the lines of tension are gone. He's relaxed and completely friendly now, with no undercurrents of anything else. "What part of England are you from?"

Logan halfway expects Potter to dodge the question, but instead he actually doesn't seem to mind, answering cheerfully, "Surrey, originally, but I went to school in Scotland and live in London now. I'd rather not, but the commute isn't worth it. And you, Professor?"

Xavier chuckles and shakes his head. "I'm not a native, I'm afraid. My university years were spent in Oxford, though."

It's so polite it's boring. Logan wonders if they're going to start discussing the weather next. If they do, he won't be responsible for his actions.

Fortunately for Logan's boredom levels, Potter's eyes narrow slightly. "Oh? Study interesting topics while you were there?"

There is no reaction from Xavier except polite amusement. "Genetics, actually. It's a fascinating subject. Do you have any knowledge of it?"

"I'm afraid not." Potter sounds anything but regretful, and there's a glint of mischief in his eyes that sends a shiver up Logan's spine. "Then again, I really haven't any need, in my line of work."

"Oh? And what would that be?" Charles is matching that mischief, and Logan briefly wonders if there'll be anything left standing when they're done with each other. "Odds and ends, you said?"

From the worried looks Jean is tossing his way, she doesn't think there will, either.

"This and that," Potter agrees serenely. "I'm a glorified gofer, really."

The Professor folds his hands in front of him and looks properly sympathetic. "Forgive me, but I believe a man of your talents would be wasted in such a job."

This obviously amuses Potter, who's one hair shy of grinning. "Wasted? Talents? I'm just another cog in the bureaucratic machine. Nothing special here. I was lucky to get the job in the first place. But your school, now that must really be something."

Xavier is equally amused. Logan hasn't seen him have his much fun with someone in…well, _ever_. He steeples his fingers carefully and smiles that polite, kiss-my-ass, I-have-no-clue-what-you're-talking-about smile that Logan has seen directed at everyone from UN delegates to Magneto's lowest drudge. "The school is simply a haven for learning, nothing more. There are many more qualified institutions out there, but we try our best."

Thankfully, before the bullshit can get any deeper, Potter refocuses his attention on Logan and smiles. "And you? You're one of the professors at the school?"

It is so utterly tempting to answer, "Yep. Art," that Logan has to physically bite his tongue to keep from doing so. Instead, he manages to nod. "Yeah. Tactics and that kind of thing."

Potter blinks slowly, and then says, "If your enemy is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. If sovereign and subject are in accord, put division between them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected."

It sounds like a quote.

Logan has absolutely no idea where it's from.

It's equally obvious that Potter expects him, in his capacity as tactics teacher, to know.

Storm takes mercy on him, drawing Potter's attention away from his blank-faced panic. "You've read _The Art of War_?"

With a grimace, Potter nods. "I had an instructor at the Academy who quoted that book every three sentences. Figured if he was so into it, there might be something worthwhile. Hermione—one of my mates—never lets me live down the fact that I can still remember passages of it, but have no clue where I put my wa—uh, my keys in the morning."

Logan's eyes narrow. Potter was about to say something else, but corrected it at the last moment. That's guilt, Logan can smell it—and if he's got something to be guilty about, that's a secret Logan wants to know.

But before Logan can jump on that, the aide and the President reappear, the aide carrying a big stack of forms that he hands off to Potter with a reverence Logan's betting is reserved for international peace treaties and state secrets.

"Agent Potter," the President says, reaching out to shake his head heartily. "Sorry for the wait. It's all there for you."

Potter rises, dinner and the conversation instantly abandoned, and nods. "I'll make sure Shacklebolt gets this immediately. Thank you, sir." He turns to look at the X-Men—and Logan has no doubt that he knows _exactly_ who they are—and smiles. "Well, sorry to eat and run, but I'm on a bit of a tight schedule," he apologizes. Then he looks directly at Logan and says, "With any luck you found those papers useful. Hope we cross paths again."

The aide leads him out in a whirl of movement, and he's gone.

Logan frowns faintly to himself. Those are exactly the words the kid used last time they parted ways. If he was even a little bit superstitious, Logan might call them charmed.

But he's not, and they can't be, so he slumps back in his chair to scowl at his vegetables while the stilted conversation picks up around him. The kid said a whole lot of nothing, and the only time Logan could pick out anything that meant _anything_ was a slip of the tongue while talking about a schoolmate.

_Frustrating_ doesn't even come close to describing it.

Picking at his broccoli with halfhearted enthusiasm, Logan wonders why he's so absolutely certain that he'll meet Potter again.

The cabinet member picks up where he was when the Englishman interrupted, and Logan returns to contemplating the accuracy his steak knife would have when thrown from this distance. Whether it hits or not, it'll still be entertaining.

Wheels shoots him a chiding look, and Logan subsides with a discreet eye-roll. Really, he'd rather join that stupid Avenger program with _Tony Stark_ than sit here for one more minute, especially now that the kid is gone.

But he's not gone forever. Logan can feel that in his bones, the same way he can feel an approaching blizzard.

There's no doubt that he'll bring just as much trouble as one, either.

Logan's looking forward to it.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

Logan's always heard people say, "Third time's the charm," but he's never really believed it before. Still, the third time they meet _is_ lucky because Logan's in a bit of a tight spot.

"Well," that stupid accent drawls. "This is interesting."

Logan looks at him from where he's fighting with the chain around his wrists and scowls. "You. What the hell do you want?"

Potter leans back against one of the support columns and raises an eyebrow. He's wearing some sort of…robe? It's bright red, whatever it is, and weird. "Nothing at all. Just making an observation."

That smile can probably charm birds out of their feathers, Logan suspects. He ignores the fact that it makes him feel a little like a sparrow in front of a snake and glares. "Well take your observations and shove them up your—"

"I take it that means you don't want any help?" Potter cuts in gracefully, twirling a long, thin wooden stick around his fingers. "That pool of acid is particularly inspired, though. Might be tough to avoid even if you _can_ get out of that."

Logan glares at the chain wrapped tight around his wrists, holding him off the ground as the acid bubbles merrily beneath. Damn Magneto. Damn Brotherhood. And damn One-Eye, for sending him on this retrieval mission. _Oh, it'll be easy. In and out. Grab the kid and get back; even you can do that, right, Logan?_

Cyclops ain't gonna make it through one more night without a foot up his ass, that's for sure.

"I'm glad you're inspired," Logan grits out between clenched teeth. "I'll give you their number, if you want, and you can compare techniques. Now fuck off."

Potter rolls his eyes—as though Logan's a little kid who's _aggravating_ him, which pisses him off even more—and shakes his head. He flips the stick around his fingers once more and then gives it a wave, and the green-grey pool is gone.

Logan blinks.

With clear amusement, Potter raises an eyebrow. "Do you need help with the chains, too? I thought all of you X-Men were good at getting out of tight spots by yourselves."

Logan just barely resists the urge to tell him where to stick his help, and jerks his head in something that could almost be called a nod. The kid looks at him with something that's uncomfortably close to pity and makes another sharp gesture. The chain vanishes, and Logan slumps forward, shaking out his hands to get rid of the pins and needles.

"So what is it this time?" he asks after a moment, eyeing Potter. "Gonna blow the place up again?"

Potter somehow manages to look wicked and angelically innocent simultaneously; it's really rather frightening. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about. I've not blown anything up in years. That was a _fire_. Completely different, I assure you."

Even scarier is the fact that Logan believes him—what happened at the base was a fire, and an explosion would have been far more noticeable and far more destructive. Potter seems to be the kind of person who'd like destructive. Still, the question stands, and Logan just stares at him for a few beats, waiting for an answer.

Eventually, Potter shifts—almost a fidget, really—and blows out a breath in clear exasperation. "All right, all right! I'd heard there might be something of interest to my office here. Turns out it was just a lot of cheap plastic Muggle knockoffs, so I was killing time when I heard you swearing. Thought I might as well offer some assistance, seeing as I'm off the clock anyway."

Logan kind of wants to ask what a Muggle is, but gets the distinct feeling he's better off not knowing, so he files it away. "Well, thanks. Now scram; I've got work to do." Although the Brotherhood has already swanned off with the girl he was here to find, there might be other records on mutants around here somewhere—it's an old testing facility from back when they were trying to "cure" mutants with electroshock therapy and the like, and while most people see it as torture, there are some sick fucks who actually still send their kids here to get cured. It turns Logan's stomach.

But instead of bugging off, Potter follows him cheerfully down the hall. "Nah, I've got some time to kill before I have to head back. Want a hand?"

Logan pauses. Now there's a thought. He glances back at the kid, who's still got those nerdy glasses and big, innocent green eyes and a grin that would make the devil himself turn tail and scamper.

He's also already proven to be handy at destroying government facilities in a _lovely_ way.

"Up for it?" he asks after a moment, trying not to match the shrimp's grin. It takes concentration not to rub his hands together gleefully.

Potter beams. "Right, mate. Where do I start?"

* * *

They stake out a hill some half a mile away to survey their handiwork. It's stunning, really, thick clouds of black smoke rising and the crash of walls falling and the wailing fire alarms. Makes Logan want a beer or something to toast with, Nero-style as the complex burns. Potter looks happy, too, a little scruffy from dust and smoke but otherwise untouched. They're both savoring the moment.

Of course, that's when Logan's phone rings.

Logan checks the number and sighs, flipping it open. "Yeah, Chuck?"

Xavier sounds long-suffering and faintly amused. "Dare I ask if all the civilians got out in time?"

Snorting, Logan rolls his eyes. "We tripped four different biohazard warnings, three containment or structural failure alerts, and the fire alarm. Anyone human still inside is deaf, dumb, and so stupid that we can call it natural selection if they don't get out in time. And all the mutants are loose. Took care of that first."

There's a pause, and then a careful, "'We,' Logan?"

Crap.

Next to him, Potter—obviously and shamelessly listening in—laughs and climbs to his feet, brushing a bit of soot off his slightly singed red robe. "Well, it's been fun, but I've got to pop in at the Ministry before it gets any later." He grins and salutes Logan, then turns on his heel and vanishes with a cheery, "Love to do this again sometime, Wolverine, give me a ring."

The air settles with a whisper, and Logan sighs into the phone. "Yeah, Chuck, 'we.' Ya wanna send Nightcrawler to get me? I'll tell you in person."

Wheels attempts to make a token protest, but Logan snaps the phone shut before he can and looks down, to where a scrap of somewhat scorched crimson cloth is just about to blow away. He snags it and lifts it up, and under the smell of fire, he can still make out the faintest trace of almonds.

Cyanide, he decides. There's no better explanation, because without a doubt that smell is _trouble_.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

The fourth time they meet, the only high point is the distinct lack of rhododendrons.

"Still think this is interesting?" Logan grunts, trying to work his way out of where he's been halfway embedded in a solid metal wall.

"Well, it's certainly not what I planned for when I got up this morning," Potter retorts. He's gotten off a bit easier, only his hands trapped, but you can't tell from the way he's wriggling. "You know, get up, shower, make breakfast, get the kid to school, dodge the ex-wife's lawyer. Getting inserted into the wall of a safe house doesn't usually come into that process. Merlin, I hate my job sometimes." He gives up and settles with glaring at the metal.

Logan is feeling vaguely sympathetic, but not enough to actually listen. Even while trapped in the metal, his claws can come out, but they can't actually _do_ anything. It's beyond aggravating, and makes him wish Shadowcat was here—this is one time her powers would actually be _useful _for something other than running away. Not that he can reach his cell phone to tell the Professor where they are so he can send help. Hopefully—

The thought is cut off before it can finish as Magneto sweeps back into the room, all regal bearing, stupid purple cloak, and retarded helmet. Mystique is on one side of him, wearing the Defense Minister's face, and Sabertooth is on the other, grinning at Logan.

Logan's never wanted anything as much as he wants to pound the bastard's face in. Doesn't matter which one, either—any of the three will do. Someone else might balk at the thought of hitting a lady, but Mystique's got it coming.

"You know," Potter puts in conversationally, leaning his shoulder against the wall, "my people wear his-and-hers dresses twenty-four seven and I _still_ think that cloak is one of the worst fashion statements I've ever seen. No offence."

Magneto shoots him a look that Logan has _seen _bend steel. "Be silent, human. This doesn't concern you."

Even from his place across the room, Logan can see that dark eyebrow go up. "Human? So just because you can't _see_ anything different about me, you're going to write me off as not being one of you? What if I can make my toes light up? What if—I don't know, what if I can talk to rocks? If I don't have a visible mutation, I'm automatically not a mutant?"

With a frown, Magneto turns back to him. "Are you a mutant, boy?"

The eyebrow goes back down, and Potter fucking _lounges_ against the wall, looking smug. Logan can't tell if he wants to smack him or kiss him for that bravado. "You could say that. I'm more of a kissing cousin, really. Care to let me out now?" For emphasis, he shakes his arms and raises an eyebrow.

Magneto studies him for a moment and then shakes his head. "I think not. If you've anything to do with my old friend's precious X-Men, you're a hindrance." His attention turns to Logan, dismissing Potter. "And you, Wolverine. Still carrying all of that fascinating metal around. I'd be happy to take care of it for you, if you want."

He clenches a fist, and Logan can feel the metal twisting around his bones. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he growls, "I'd rather have a tonsillectomy with a pair of red-hot pliers. Fuck off."

Before Magneto can say anything more, Potter cuts in again. "You know, that's really a fascinatingly ugly helmet. Can I have a look?" He mutters something under his breath, eyes narrowing, and the helmet all but shoots off of Magneto's head. Magneto makes a noise that in anyone else would be a yelp of surprise and grabs for it with his power, halting it before it gets more than halfway across the room.

"That's an interesting power," he says, narrowing his eyes right back. "And who would you be, boy?"

Potter rolls his eyes, even as the helmet attempts to inch closer to him. "What, you want me to make up some ridiculous sobriquet and prance around in skintight leather calling myself that? Not in this lifetime, thanks, I'll stick with my jumpers." With a flick of his head, whatever force he's using on the helmet is gone, and it shoots back towards Magneto, who just manages to stop it before it hits him. "Now let me out. I've got a parents' meeting at my son's school and I'll be damned if I'll let the ex go and lay all blame for his acting out on me."

Magneto gives him a look like Potter is something nasty to be scraped off the bottom of his shoe. "Such _human_ concerns. Don't you care for the state of your world? Don't you care for the sufferings of you _people_?"

Logan rolls his eyes and thunks his head against the wall once or twice. "Look, Mags, we'd rather not listen to any speeches, if it's all the same to you. Convert or die just ain't my style."

Eyes cold and hard, Magneto stares at them for another moment before he turns away. "Very well, we're done here. The scientist they were protecting is dead and vengeance has been won. Farewell, Wolverine, boy." He sweeps out of the room, Mystique and Sabertooth close at his heels, and Logan snorts in disgust.

"Old showboat," he mutters. Whatever the Professor used to see in him, Logan can't imagine. The very fact that they started the X-Men together is mind-boggling. Magneto's a nut job who goes around wearing maroon cloaks and a callback to a phallic symbol on his head, and the Prof is, arguably and for all his high ideals, relatively down-to-earth.

Across the room, Potter laughs. "Really, I haven't gotten a convert or die speech in _years_. Was he listening to me at _all_ when I was talking?"

"Magneto ain't real good at listening to anyone but his ego," Logan answers, fighting another eye-roll. "And do you _ever_ stop making jokes? Needling the bastard isn't such a good idea."

Potter laughs again, more softly this time, and rests his forehead against the wall. "How'd you like me to be? Morose, angst-ridden, and spouting portents of pessimism and doom? Thanks, but I've already lived through my teenage years once, and I wouldn't do it again for any money."

Logan flexes his arm, and feels the metal give under his claws ever so slightly. "Lots of people spend their whole lives like that," he points out, not paying complete attention but listening anyway.

"Hmm." Potter sounds contemplative as he stares at his hands. "I was heading that way, too, once. Bad case of trying to fit into normal life after being a soldier. I got married, adopted my godson, tried to start a family, got the job I always thought I wanted. And everything went to hell. Wife left, godson hated me, job took too much out of me. My fault, most of it. But then I met the ghost of an old mentor." He smiles sadly, but fondly. "Used to wear the craziest colors all the time, always smiling, always with a bit of wisdom to share. He talked some sense into me. It was like drowning and then coming up for air. You can only be serious about life for so long. After all, no matter how we act, no one gets out alive, right? Changed my life right around, seeing him again, even if he was a ghost."

Potter frowns for a moment, then makes a sound of satisfaction, and the metal around his hands vanishes. He pulls away from the wall, flexing his fingers, and pulls that skinny stick out of a holster on his arm. "Sorry about that, had to have skin contact with this for it to work, and it took a second to get. Here we are." With a flick, the wall vanishes, and Logan staggers free.

"Thanks," Logan says, shaking himself out. "I was getting worried for a second there."

Potter cheerily waves him off, the signet ring on one finger flashing in the low light. "Don't mention it, but I'm off. Teddy will kill me if I'm late, and he's got his grandmother's temper. Later!" He turns neatly on one foot and disappears without a sound.

Logan stares after him for a moment, wondering how much of his story is true—because really? The ghost of an old mentor? Logan's seen a lot of crazy things, but nothing like _that_.

Somewhere in the distance, there's a fire alarm going off. Logan knows he didn't set this one, and sighs. Trouble. There's no other word for it.

But at least this time, there are no damned rhododendrons.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five**_

It's rather surprising that there isn't a trench in the floor of Xavier's office from all the pacing that's going on. Scott strides the width of the room, turns on his heel, and marches back the way he came. "So he said he wasn't a mutant? But he had powers like one? He must have been lying. There's no other explanation."

"He didn't say he _wasn't_, exactly," Logan points out, sidestepping Scott as he makes his own attempt at wearing a trench. "Kissing cousins, that was how Potter put it. And whatever he was doing, I've never seen a mutation like that. And talking to ghosts? Shouldn't that be impossible?"

Wheels frowns faintly and steeples his fingers. "'Kissing cousins,' hmm? A familial relationship, then, and one too close for comfort. You know, the X-gene is really a misnomer. It's hardly a single gene that creates our differences, but a series of genes interlocking in incredibly complex ways, making each mutant unique. For example, it's almost impossible for two people to have the exact same shade of hair—and if they do, their eyes matching shades is even more rare. But there are races that have all developed with the same basic hair and eye color, regardless of shading."

From her perch on the arm of Storm's chair, Jean arches an eyebrow. "So…what? He comes from a race that's the X-gene equivalent of Sweden's blue-eyed blonds?"

The Professor smiles at her. "Well, to simplify it, yes. A repeating collection of genes arranged in the same pattern to create a single race. Logan, you said that the first time you encountered him, Mr. Potter slipped right by a pair of guards without them even noticing?"

"Yeah." Logan nods, pausing to look at the telepath. "But I still saw him."

"Fascinating." Charles turns to look out the window, eyes thoughtful. "Mental talents seem to have no effect on you. What he did was probably some form. But imagine! If an entire people had that particular talent, or similar ones, they might slip by entirely unnoticed in the world, unseen by anyone. Like a mutant without any visible mutations."

"I must say, I'd never thought of it quite that way," a familiar voice interrupts, and Logan turns with the others to see Potter leaning back against the far wall, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. "Impressive, Professor."

"I wouldn't feel too flattered, Chuck," Logan drawls, raising a brow in return. "He was calling a pool of acid 'inspired' last I heard."

Potter laughs and comes forward, holding out a hand for the Professor to shake. "Sorry about popping in unannounced, but I couldn't find the doorbell. You're a…telepath, was it? Impressive. You'd be able to get through my shields in seconds, and I've been training for a while."

That small, interested smile never wavers as Charles takes his hand. "As have I, Mr. Potter. Is there a reason for your visit, or is this purely a social call?"

"Ah." Potter lets out a slow breath that is mixed parts amusement and resignation. "No small talk, then, Professor? Very well. I've been asked to test the waters, so to speak. My government sent me to look for options for revealing ourselves. Mutants are finally gaining equal rights, and a very large number of people in my world believe that it's time to come out into the light, instead of hiding for another few thousand years. At least in times like these, we won't have to worry quite so much about witch trials and the like. You're one of the main faces of the mutant cause, so I thought you would be the best to see about such things."

The silence is pretty much stifling. Logan sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. It can never be easy, can it?

"That is…quite the ambition," the Professor ventures after a long minute. "Your people are all agreed?"

Potter laughs—a little bitterly, in Logan's opinion. "Oh, no, of course not. But it's easy enough for those who don't want to reveal themselves to stay hidden. And a lot of us are born into normal families. We want the option to live those lives again, while keeping our power. 'Sides, as you've just pointed out, there's a logical explanation for our gifts now, and that'll go quite a ways towards smoothing the path for us. Calling it magic is one thing, especially when witches and wizards are hardly welcomed in any part of the world, but it's another entirely to show up as a group of people with a random genetic configuration responsible for our talents."

He takes a deep breath and steps back, smoothing down the open red robe he's still wearing in the first show of nerves that Logan has seen from him. "That's where I'd like to ask for your help, Professor Xavier. It was one of your theses that led to the revelation of mutants in general. If I rounded you up some volunteers, could you do the same thing for us?"

It sounds incredible, fantastic, but Logan's seen what Potter can do, and that's more than enough to convince him. He grins a little, thinking of the collective brick the UN is gonna shit when _this_ comes to light. Bad enough that right now mutants are just getting their civil rights in most places; now a new group wants those same rights, and has been hiding under their noses for what sounds like a very long time.

"Well, kid," he drawls, calling Potter's attention back to him, "if you're looking to start a shit-fest, you're looking in the right place. Your people prepared for the backlash?"

Potter nods quickly. "We have ways of defending ourselves that you can't even imagine. And if this all goes south, we'll just go back into hiding. No Muggle—sorry, non-magical person—will ever find us if we don't let them."

Charles lets out a slow breath before Logan can respond, and says carefully, "May I have some time to think this over? It's rather a large decision."

"Of course." Potter steps back again, heading for the door. "Take as much time as you need. I'll pop back in after a week and we'll go from there."

"One moment, please," the Professor calls, and Potter halts, half-turning and hitching a brow at him in query. "Forgive me, but why were you sent to represent your people, Mr. Potter? What is so special about you that you can be spokesman for an entire race?"

That's quite the question; Logan only wishes he'd thought to ask it sooner.

Potter hesitates for a moment, one hand rising to play with the signet ring that Logan's noticed before. It's big and heavy, with some kind of black stone with a crest on it that's cracked right down the middle. The movement looks like a nervous gesture, something self-conscious and wary.

"Let's just say that I'm something of a powerful figure right now, because of ancestry and some things beyond my control," Potter says after another hesitation that lasts so long Logan thought he wasn't going to answer at all. "That's enough, I think."

He slips out the door, and Logan only waits a moment before going after him, falling into step as they head for the front door. They're silent until they reach the stairs, and then Logan says carefully, "Big change. Ready for it?"

Potter sighs and rubs his eyes under the nerdy glasses. "Can we ever really be?" he asks pragmatically. "But our world's been in the dark ages for too long. It wasn't even ten years ago that we faced down a threat that would have destroyed our society and left all Muggles dead or enslaved to a madman. My best friend can't take her husband into the Muggle world where she grew up because he barely understands how a telephone works. The divide between worlds is just getting bigger. If we don't stop it now, who will?"

There's nothing Logan can say to that, but from the way Potter is looking at him, he doesn't have to. Instead, he just nods and offers, "If anyone can do it, Potter, Wheels can. Trust him."

"That's exactly what Dumbledore said," Potter tells him with a tired sigh, but nods before Logan can ask what the _hell_ a Dumbledore is. "You're both right, though. We've done as much as possible on our end. Now all we have to do is…reveal it." He gives Logan a quick smile. "And please, call me Harry. Best be off, things to do and all that." A quick half-turn and he's gone again, taking with him all the words Logan was about to say.

Rolling his eyes, Logan ignores the faint smell of almonds that lingers in the air and heads back to the Professor's office, where the debate doubtless still rages.

"Trouble," he mutters as he goes, and grins to himself.

This is going to be interesting.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter Six**_

By the sixth time they meet, Logan is done being blindsided by weird encounters in odd places, and refuses to be surprised.

"Don't say it," Potter—Harry—warns darkly, very pointedly not looking at Logan. "Just _don't_."

Logan has to physically bite his tongue to keep from saying something he probably won't regret, but that Harry will likely _make_ him regret. Instead, he leans against a display of fruit and hikes an eyebrow at the wizard. "Hey, shopping's serious business. Don't let me hold you back."

Harry rolls his eyes—which is probably just about the only part of his upper body he can move, buried under bags of vegetables and fruit, boxes of cereal, and two gallons of milk—and starts dumping it into his shopping cart. A little boy with Harry's coloring, no more than four, is in the seat. Logan vaguely remembers him saying something about having a kid—though he can't remember if Harry said one or two—just as two blurs shoot out of the candy isle and attach themselves to the wizard's legs.

"Harry, can we go now? I want to go to the park," the taller boy whines. His hair's a rather shocking shade of yellow, like a lemon on acid, but he has Harry's green eyes—a rather unfortunate combination, Logan thinks.

The other boy, barely older than the kid in the basket, but thankfully sporting his father's hair rather than the yellow, nods emphatically. "Park, Dad!"

Harry sighs and closes his eyes, obviously counting to ten. "Boys, I told you. We're shopping today. No park."

There's little resemblance to the smooth, confident agent Logan's used to right now. Instead, he's gotten the harried father full-force. Harry looks driven to his wits' end, neat oxford buttoned crooked, glasses askew, hair sticking up in amusing tufts where small hands have likely grabbed it, and splotches of what look like breakfast on his well-worn jeans. Logan's a little gleeful to see him like this, as most of the time when they meet Logan is far from at his best.

"Please?" the two kids chorus in that eerie way siblings have. Those wounded puppy eyes could kill, Logan's almost certain. He's also very thankful they're not being directed at him. Harry seems immune, though, and when the boys fail to get their way, the little one breaks down into sniffles. The older one pouts. In the cart, the youngest screws up his face and begins making suspiciously tantrum-like noises as he follows his brothers' lead.

Harry covers his face with his hands and groans.

Logan glances up at the wizard and lets his other eyebrow rise to join the first. "Need some help there, Scruffy?" he drawls.

The look Harry fixes him with is one degree shy of scorching. "Scruffy? Like you're one to talk, _Wolverine_. And you really think you could handle these three any better?"

It's not that Logan doesn't know better than to rise to the bait. He does. It's just that he's physically incapable of not doing so.

* * *

"Thank you, Logan!" three voices chorus as Logan hands over the ice cream cones he's bought.

"Sure, squirts, any time," he answers, ruffling Teddy's currently aquamarine hair. Harry had just muttered something about metamorphosis (or a similar word Logan couldn't pick out), but Logan's worked out that it's something along the lines of Mystique's ability, even if Teddy can't completely control it yet. The ten-year-old grins up at him brightly, missing his front tooth, and then runs for the playground with James and Al following close behind.

Shaking his head—because this was _not_ how he pictured his day going when he stepped out to get a late breakfast—Logan nods to the ice cream guy and heads back to the bench Harry's taken up residence on. The wizard looks far more relaxed than he did earlier, shopping safely stowed somewhere Logan isn't asking questions about and clothes put to rights with a muttered word. Logan drops down beside him and offers him one of the remaining ice creams, and Harry takes it with a smile.

"I hope you realize that this isn't _handling_ them, it's _indulging_ them," he points out, but he sounds amused more than annoyed and Logan relaxes a bit. He shrugs.

"So? Kids need a break sometime. Good for 'em. Isn't that what all those parenting books say?"

Harry shakes his head, biting off a chunk of his treat. "I wouldn't know—I leave all that kind of stuff to Ginny. Thankfully, she's got Lily this weekend, or I would have self-destructed hours ago. The boys are bad enough." He stands up and stretches, dark green oxford riding up to show a strip of tanned, toned flesh, and then heads for where Al is trying to follow his brothers up the jungle gym. "Well, you've shown you can make them sugar-crazed; now come show me you can survive the aftermath."

But Logan's not listening. His mind is stuck on that patch of skin like a skipping record, unable to move past the single thought that entered his head at the sight of it.

_Yum?_

_Yum?_

_Why the fucking bleeding _hell _did I just think 'yum'?_

Clearly, something is very, very wrong here.

* * *

Logan is quite willing to admit that he's in the midst of a bit of a sexual identity crisis. _Yum_ is not a customary word he uses when referencing other men's bodies—nor does he reference other men's bodies in general. To find himself doing so now—and especially to find himself thinking that way about a formerly married wizard father of three (or four, counting Teddy) who has a mischievous streak to shame Loki—is unsettling to say the least.

Turning on his heel, Logan paces back across the hallway, his muttered monologue earning him a wary look from Scott as the other X-Man slips by at a safe distance. Logan shoots a look after him, testing a theory, and…nope. There is nothing edible about Cyclops. Hell, he can't even tell what Jean sees in him personality-wise, let alone in looks. Moving on from there, thoughts of Tony Stark just produce a shudder of revulsion—really, Logan's never met another living creature that can talk _that much_, and he lives in a _school_ full of _teenagers_—and Captain America is so pure and chaste it's physically impossible to think about him as anything other than Captain America. He should be locked up with a bunch of vestal virgins somewhere, not allowed out in Stark's company—though from the rumors Logan's heard about those two, Rogers isn't nearly as innocent as he's made out to be.

But this is getting off topic. Harry is the only man Logan can even consider _that way_, and it's not because he's girly. He's not, for all that he's a bit short and skinny. Harry isn't feminine, and though it would be amusing to see his face if he were ever shoved into a dress, Logan can't really imagine him in one.

So, that's one question answered. Or two, really. It's not all men, and it really doesn't matter that Harry's male, because he clearly is.

It's fine. Really. Logan's not a homophobe—he's not exactly _gay_, but he's not a homophobe, either. It's just…he's never expected to find himself attracted to someone so far outside the norm of his usual dating habits. Jean's normal, for him—beautiful and strong and built like an athlete with curves.

Harry Potter is…not.

Not to say he's not good-looking in his own way. He's got that permanently scruffy air that makes people want to go after him with a comb, and glasses that are at _least_ sixty years out of style, but it works for him.

Moreover, it works for _Logan_.

This thought gives Logan an entirely new heart attack, and his brain must have an epileptic seizure or something, because when it comes back from wherever it was, Storm is standing in the doorway of the library watching him. There's a certain amount of sympathetic amusement on her face, and she swings the door open in silent invitation.

* * *

Thirty minutes later Logan is more mortified than he ever has been before and Storm is trying desperately not to say something that will a) make her burst into laughter or b) cause Logan to run for the hills.

It's a delicate balance, but she's managed to maintain it so far.

Thankfully, Logan has plans with Harry (he's ignoring how much his heart speeds up in gleeful anticipation at those words) and his kids, which gives him an excuse to flee with at least some of his dignity intact. Storm takes his retreat with grace, and waves goodbye with a kind smile on her face and an amused gleam in her eye.

She's quite possibly the best interrogator Logan's ever met, having managed to get the entire story out of him in just under twenty-five minutes. It's a little terrifying, really, and he makes a mental note to recommend her to Fury and the Initiative at some point. She'd be unstoppable.

Harry is waiting outside the park when Logan pulls up on his bike. Albus is tucked under one arm, half-asleep, and Teddy and James are clinging to his coat with the vibrating glee of children under the influence of sugar. The wizard doesn't look nearly as worn out as he had yesterday—if anything, he seems happier, and Logan can't help the incredibly teenage-girlish hope that it's because of him. The shaggy hair and rumpled clothes make Harry look like he needs a keeper. Logan's experience with him takes that and makes it a certainty.

Or maybe it's not a keeper he needs, but a partner in crime.

Harry smiles at him, hoisting Al higher on his hip, and says with relief, "Thanks for coming, Logan. They get a kick out of being around you, and it makes my life a bit easier."

Logan puts down the kickstand and swings off, acknowledging the words with a gruff, "They're not too bad, for squirts. Worse things to do with my time."

The beaming smile he gets in return is stupidly blinding, and leaves Logan stupidly mushy. He pushes those feelings down and stomps on them as he reaches out to ruffle Teddy's magenta hair, and then James's.

"So?" he growls. "We gonna do this?"

Harry grins and grabs James by the collar as he turns to run, ushering them all towards the entrance to the movie theater across the road. "Sure. Come on, boys, look both ways."

As a fearsome magical law enforcement agent, Harry is formidable and attractive in a dangerous way. As a slightly frazzled but competent parent, Harry makes Logan want to kiss him and never let him up for breath.

Logan thinks about Storm's somewhat awkward pat on the shoulder, her careful, "_If you care for him, Logan, gender shouldn't matter._"

Yeah, he thinks wearily as he surrenders. Okay.

Maybe there's something to that after all.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter Seven**_

The boys are all fast asleep by the time Logan and Harry drag them out of the restaurant and load them into Harry's old clunker of a car. Once all three little monsters are safely restrained—though Logan can't quite be sure if it's for their safety or everyone else's—Harry sighs and leans back against the door, rubbing his eyes. When he looks up, though, he's smiling that bright, gorgeous smile that makes Logan's heart start doing stupid jumping jacks and cartwheels in his chest.

"Thanks for today, Logan," he says. "The boys had fun—and so did I."

Logan is dithering. It's not a familiar feeling, and he doesn't particularly like it. What he _does_ like is the fact that Harry's standing close enough that Logan can feel the heat of his body like a phantom hand.

"Sure," he says, and it comes out gruff and low, more like a growl than is probably polite. Logan clears his throat and tries again. "Any time. They haven't got anything on some of the kids at the school."

Harry laughs and shakes his head, glancing back at his children fondly. "Oh, just wait until they start having bouts of accidental magic," he says wryly. "Then they'll have you singing another tune, I'm afraid. Teddy had one last week and nearly got the neighborhood watch called when he transfigured a video game character out of a chair and it started stalking people."

They both fall silent for a moment, and Logan curses the fact that he feels _nervous_. He opens his mouth to say something, hopefully something witty and dry that will make Harry laugh, but what comes out instead is, "How's the Prof doing with that study? He and Jean make any progress yet?"

Harry glances over at him, eyebrow quirked. He's smiling a little bit, like he knows a secret that Logan doesn't, and he turns to face the mutant. "Really, Logan?" he drawls, accent twisting the words into something that sends shivers up and down Logan's spine. "Is that really what you want to ask me?"

Logan looks at those laughing green eyes, the easy grin, the challenging expression, and thinks, _All right, fuck it, we're doing this._ Rolling his eyes, he grabs Harry by the collar, hauls him up the several inches of difference that separate them, and kisses him.

They've been pretty much flirting for _months_ now, so this kiss isn't a slow, easy, sweet introduction. It's hard and fast and a little dirty, because no matter what he feels for the other man, this is _Logan_ and in no universe or reality is he _ever_ a gentleman. Harry doesn't seem to mind, wrapping his arms around Logan's neck and pulling him even closer. His mouth is warm-hot and flavored with the popcorn they shared in the theater, and the dinner they shared afterwards, but there's something below those tastes, something mischievous and amused and caring, and Logan doesn't ever want to come up for air.

They have to eventually, though, and Harry grins up at Logan as though he just did something deserving of a medal. "About time," he offers, that wicked eyebrow rising again. "Thought I might have to strip and dance around naked to get your attention. Must be all that metal in your skull."

Logan laughs, and it feels good—as though he hasn't laughed this freely in a very long time, and he probably hasn't. "Yeah, yeah." He rolls his eyes and yanks Harry close again, tucking the wizard under his arm where he fits perfectly. "Make fun of the oblivious straight guy. That's real nice, wizard."

Harry just laughs at him and pulls him down into another kiss.

Somehow, it doesn't even matter that they're three paces away from a cheerfully blooming rhododendron. Logan's actually kind of thankful for the ugly thing.

A chorus of "_Ewww_!" sounds from inside the car, and Harry pulls back with a groan. Logan rolls his eyes again, twists them so that his back is to the window, and kisses Harry again.

Really, he could get used to this.


End file.
